Chapter 22
T hough I can do nothing, I still find myself flying to my feet, my entire body pressed against the heavy bronze grate. I crane my neck painfully, determined to keep my eyes locked on the Lupa Nox. When she bursts from the Ecclesia’s cloud of vestments, a strange wave of triumph surges through me.
The tip of her stolen broadsword cuts through the storm-gray cloth, and one Ecclesian shrieks—a horrible sound, all wretched and wrong. I cling to the grate, slipping my fingers through the slim openings and clutching the bronze metal as if that could help her, aid her somehow.
As the eye-wound in the chest of the First Son watches, the pupil tracking every movement, the High Ecclesia closes rank. The Lupa Nox, panting, steps on one of the chains attached to her shackled wrists at the same time that she lifts her hand. The chain snaps, metal pieces skittering across the marble. If They kept her ankle bindings, those are already gone—torn to shreds between the teeth of the black wolf.
I press my face against the grate until it hurts, trying to see if the hooded mortals will do anything, but they make no move, like they were already instructed not to interfere. Sickly candlelight gleams off Their chainmail as the High Ecclesia wheels on the Lupa Nox. With a grin, she spits blood onto the gleaming marble floor and leaps to meet Them.
She is, like all those left in her wake say, an utter terror. The Lupa Nox tears through the High Ecclesia, her broadsword’s shimmering arcs so quick that they look more like bursts of bronze light to me than anything else. She might win, I realize—she might triumph.
But then some of the hooded mortals break off from the half-moon, running to the Devorarium doors. Some are already calling for the Holy Guard, working together to open the heavy iron latches at the doors. Panic shudders through me, and I turn back to the Lupa Nox.
Parrying a blow from an Ecclesian with her sword, the knight flings her other hand outward. The chain still attached to her shackle whips out, snake-like, and curls around the neck of an Ecclesian. With a snarl that echoes through the sacred space, the Lupa Nox pulls. She ducks beneath the strike of another Ecclesian, impossibly graceful, and pulls the tall, narrow figure toward her.
Toward her blade.
That war cry echoes out again as the Lupa Nox buries the point of the stolen broadsword into the High Ecclesian. My heart careens up my throat when all the Ecclesians shriek at once, as if They’ve all been stabbed. The one with a sword protruding from Their chest stumbles forward toward the group of hooded mortals. I don’t know what I expect, my face pressed against the grate, my blood pounding in my veins, but it’s certainly not for the Ecclesian to grab one of the figures and sink teeth into their flesh. For a long, horrible moment, it’s all I can see—teeth bared beneath the silk veil, all the more terrible, somehow, and then the Ecclesian drawing away, storm-gray vestments stained black with blood.
A single knight, no matter how glorious, cannot defend against what They are.
The Ecclesian turns back to the fray, snapping off the end of the broadsword with one massive, gauntleted hand. The Lupa Nox slips beyond the reach of two clashing weapons and vaults onto the altar. From there, her chain lashes out again, wrapping around another Ecclesian’s neck. This time, she follows the movement a moment later, using the altar to take a running leap and, arms outstretched, tackling the Ecclesian to the ground.
It’s so quick, so strangely elegant, the way the Lupa Nox wraps her hands around the veiled thing’s neck and snaps it. Just like that. The Ecclesian goes limp, and again, all the others shriek. She launches herself back onto the altar, winding in her length of chain.
Three Ecclesians circle her, but the others dive toward the half-moons of hooded figures. And then—though it takes my mind so long to process it—I watch as the Ecclesians feast. They tear into the gathering of people, gauntleted hands outstretched, chainmail sprayed with blood, Their gold masks little more than smears of gore in only moments.
Up on the altar, the Lupa Nox looks up and sees the same thing. Terror crosses her face. I know the look of it because I feel it constantly, haunting me like a phantom. As the Ecclesians feast, she keeps the other three at bay with sharp cracks of the chain. But when the one with a broken neck shudders and rises back to Their feet, something that might be utter desperation fills me. The Ecclesians close in, and I realize that I am not looking at ten creatures hunting Their quarry.
I am—Saints, I hope I am wrong—looking at one mind peering out from ten Fatum bodies.
I let out a strangled cry, throwing all of my weight against the latch. The knight is tiring, her chest rising in great heaves, and the High Ecclesia is a ceaseless horror. No one appears to have noticed me. The High Ecclesia’s attention is settled squarely on the Lupa Nox, and there are only a few hooded figures left alive. Anyone could be under those cloaks. It could be anyone’s blood seeping out onto the marble floor, glimmering strangely in the altar’s corpse-lights. Renault’s blood, even. Saints, it could be Carina’s.
“Forgive me,” I whisper, tears streaming down my face, “but this cannot be right.”
And then the latch gives. I almost fall as the panel swings forward, creating an open tunnel instead of a tight confessional. I stumble forward, my heart slamming into my breastbone so hard I feel faint and feverish.
“Nyatrix!” I shout her name for the first time, the syllables hoarse and holy in my burning torch of a throat.
Up on the altar, her head snaps in my direction, and the weight of her gaze lands on me, heavy as chainmail. For a moment, she hesitates.
“Here!” I shout again, gesturing with my free hand, hoping beyond hope that she gets to me before the High Ecclesia. Because They’ve noticed me now, veiled heads swiveling on Their towering bodies, masked faces catching the light, shimmering with blood.
Nyatrix takes advantage of Their distraction and leaps off the altar, diving past the High Ecclesia, slipping for just a moment in a pool of blood. As she runs to me, the entire world seems to slow, and I feel the horrid gaze of the eye-wound in the First Son’s statue upon me. Nausea blooms in my stomach, and I retch, tearing my gaze away from its seeking pupil.
Instead, I look at her: a terrifying thing, her hair streaming behind her like a war banner, the length of her strides devouring the distance between us. For an eternity, I think, I hold her gaze—that thunderstorm of endless, relentless rage as terrifying as it is beautiful.
And then the Lupa Nox is upon me, a wolf with its quarry between its teeth. She slams the panel back into place, lithe hands closing the latch. Her sharp gaze darts about the space, and in an instant pushes the priest’s heavy sitting chair up against the panel as if it weighs no more than a basket of blackberries.
And then, wordless, she’s upon me, one hand ghosting the side of my face. I shiver, pressed against the paneled walls of the place where I confessed to the very sins I’m now committing. The heat of her banishes the feverish chill stretching across my skin.
“That was very brave,” she breathes, her eyes searching mine, “and very stupid.”
“I can get you out of here,” I tell her. This betrayal should poison me, but instead, the simmering pit of sorrow in my stomach seems to settle, just a little. There’s no time to explain, no time to make her trust me, so instead I grip my cane in my clammy grasp and turn back into the hallway, moving at the fastest pace I can manage. My hip screams in protest, the flail wounds on my back feeling like they’re being torn open anew. I grit my teeth and ignore it, guiding the Lupa Nox through the darkness of the hallway.
Behind us, I hear a vicious splinter of wood as the High Ecclesia breaks through the confessional’s panel. My heart leaps into my throat, and I press on fast, Nyatrix like a wolf at my heels.
“Why are you doing this?” she hisses, her breath racing past my ear. “They’ll kill you for it. You understand that, right? They’ll kill you.”
My lungs tighten, but I keep moving. “What you don’t understand,” I tell her, my eyes focused on the shadowed hallway, “is that I’m already dead.”
And I won’t even get to choose what eats me. Renault, Sergio, the stake, my Lord Himself—any might make a feast of my flesh.
The Sepulchyre warrior has nothing to say. I take a hard right into the tiny kitchen, trusting my memory to guide me over the uneven slate floor. At the far side, I throw open a narrow, creaking door. The mouth of a tunnel beckons; it slopes down beneath the floor of the Spine, connecting to Cathedral Hill’s main kitchens. With the door open, Mysterium-charged lights bolted to the stone walls flicker into existence, providing a dim glow by which to navigate the uneven dirt floor.
I turn to look at Nyatrix at the same moment another one of those demonic shrieks pierces the air. My mind immediately conjures an unhelpful image of a High Ecclesian with Their head thrown back, blood-soaked vestments rippling, as that awful noise leaves Their motionless lips.
“Do you trust me?” I ask her, breathless.
She meets my gaze, her dark eyebrows drawing together. “No,” she replies after a moment of hesitation, glancing over her shoulder before looking back at me, “but you’re a better option than whatever the fuck They are.”
I inhale deeply, nod, and then plunge into the darkness. I can feel the heat of the knight as she follows, pulling the door closed tightly behind her.
“Is there a lock?” she asks, her voice breathy.
“No,” I reply, slowing my steps, “but would it really matter if there were?”
“No, I suppose not,” she replies, and then I hear her footfalls quicken as she reaches my side. The passageway is barely wide enough for us to walk side-by-side. Her bicep brushes my shoulder, and despite everything, gooseflesh races across my skin.
“Where does this lead?” Nyatrix asks.
“The main kitchens,” I reply. “It’s possible They don’t know about this passage, though I can’t be sure. It’s only used by servants.”
“Kitchens,” Nyatrix echoes.
I stumble on the uneven dirt floor, and almost instantly, she catches me, her arm curving around my waist. My entire body throbs, the blood in my veins singing a sweet, sinful song.
Any pleasure I feel in the way her open palm cups my hip is wrenched away when the door at our back tears open. Pinpricks of alternating cold and heat spear my skin. The scent of the passageway—slightly damp dirt, stone walls, and stale bread—is suddenly stifling.
“Ophelia, I need to carry you,” Nyatrix tells me, her tone urgent. “And we need to get to an armory. I don’t think a kitchen knife will hold Them back for very long.”
“I’m just going to slow you down,” I say, the words leaving my lips the second I think of them. “Leave me. Go.”
Another shriek races through the air, amplified by the tunnel. I turn to look at Nyatrix and find a fierceness has settled over her features, wolfish and sure. For a heartbeat, she meets my gaze, and there are a thousand unsaid things in her eyes.
“Forgive me, but I cannot,” she murmurs. The next moment, I am swept off the ground, cradled in the Lupa Nox’s arms. She slides my cane up my body, the handle near my ear so it won’t tangle with her legs.
And then she’s off, moving at a pace I have only ever felt in carriages. Despite my added weight, she moves like her namesake—a wolf in the darkness, indistinguishable from the shadows. She takes the curve into the kitchen at full tilt, angling her shoulder to protect me from the impact as she slams into the heavy wooden door, grappling for the iron handle.
And then we’re through and I find myself in an incredibly familiar place, but I don’t feel a single shred of familiarity. I cast my eyes around the large kitchens as Nyatrix grabs a few knives from one of the blocks. It’s like the city I knew and loved is gone, devoured by the Hexen that circle hungrily at its edges.
“Armory, Ophelia,” Nyatrix grunts, bringing us around the far side of the wide, heavy butcher’s block island. Stew pots hang abandoned above the firepit, the ovens cold. A sack of potatoes sits askew on a stone counter. I try to think, but the adrenaline racing through my body addles my mind, mixes up my thoughts.
“The armory is in the Militaire Annex,” I pant, out of breath despite being carried. “We’ll never get across the Spine, past the Devorarium. We’d have to double back or risk being out in the open.”
Nyatrix puts me down with a gentleness that only steals more air from my lungs. She even makes sure to place me by the counter so I have something to lean on.
“Are you all right here for a moment?” she asks, the smell of asphodels invading my senses, her powerful body bent over mine.
I feel small and fragile. I force myself to look up at her and nod.
The muscles in her jaw tense, and then she spins on her heel, placing both hands on the edge of the butcher’s block island. She pushes, and, incredibly, the massive piece of furniture actually moves—scraping so loudly over the stone floor that I wince. I cannot imagine the strength it takes to do such a thing, let alone after all the energy she’s already exerted. With a snarl, she stamps on the chain still dangling from her wrist, yanking her arm up at the same time. It snaps in a heartbeat.
My eyes slip toward the vaulted hall that leads into the kitchens, hoping no one has heard us. Carefully, I make my way farther down the counter and peer out. For a moment, the Spine is peaceful, nothing but midnight shadow highlighted by beeswax glow. The next second, the Holy Guard streams through the corridor in a torrent of bronze chainmail and shouted commands.
I turn back to Nyatrix to see she’s noticed, too, her head cranked back toward me even as she pushes the enormous island up against the door.
“That should hold Them,” she mutters, stepping back and observing her handiwork. Then she glances back toward me, the corner of her mouth tipped up, one eyebrow arched. “Maybe. For a few seconds.”
“Are you enjoying this?” I demand, gripping my cane so tightly that my entire arm shakes.
She saunters toward me, absurdly slow and sensual given how close we are to a horrible fate. Despite the audible shouts of the guardsmen and the clang of weaponry and the Ecclesian shrieks coming from the passageway, her attention lies entirely on me.
Her lithe, powerful hands land on either side of the counter, caging my body in, the long column of her frame only a whisper away. She bows her head like a repentant, her mouth so close to mine I am mere moments from shattering.
“I have always found,” she muses, the tendons in her hands flexing beneath her rich skin, “that the threat of death makes me feel more alive.”
Then Nyatrix pulls away, taking all the heat of the summer sun with her. I’m left trembling and utterly spent, my body incapable of stitching together all the sensations ravaging it.
“So, no armory,” she says, looking away, eyes narrowing. “Anywhere else that might be useful?”
I barely even know what would be useful—what could possibly stand up to the ten Fatum chosen by God Himself. And yet I find myself speaking anyway. “The Crypta,” I tell the Lupa Nox, raising my gaze to meet hers as I distantly recall something Renault said to me back in the Sanctum, during what feels like another life. “Th-there might be something. It’s an archive of sorts. It’s close.”
“And you can get us in?” she asks, absolutely unrattled by the sounds amplifying around us, by the way danger seems to be weaving us tighter and tighter into its web.
I wince. “Not exactly. But I know a servants’ hall that runs right along it. We might be able to find a door or a weak spot in the wall or?—”
A boom from the door to the passageway thunders so loudly that all the crockery in the kitchen trembles, and I swear the ground beneath me shakes.
“What are the chances,” Nyatrix asks, not reacting to any of it, “that one of these could get us in?” She digs into her blouse, under her breast band, and pulls out something gold and glimmering.
When I realize what it is, my mouth drops open in surprise. A High Ecclesian’s chatelaine ring sits in the palm of her hand, dripping with jewel-like keys. The Mysterium hums gently.
“I’m not sure if we’ll actually be able to use them,” I warn her. “There’s no telling what kinds of Blessings are on these.”
Another boom echoes from the passageway, and this time the butcher’s block island slides forward, creating a gap. Nyatrix turns, looking over her shoulder. A gold-gauntleted hand slips through the crack, the metal points of the fingers gripping the frame in a slow, spider-like dance. My heart plummets into my stomach.
“We’re running out of options,” she says, turning back to me. “Take us to the Crypta, little dove.”